


in umbris potestas est

by jesuisdeux



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Dooku: Jedi Lost - Cavan Scott, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Actually happy ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring Dooku (Star Wars), Dooku Redemption (Star Wars), Dooku needs a punch, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Force Visions (Star Wars), Gen, Good Dooku (Star Wars), Grandparent Dooku (Star Wars), Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Break, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Parent Dooku (Star Wars), Redemption, Sith Artifacts (Star Wars), Sith Holocrons (Star Wars), Sith Temples (Star Wars), The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars), The Force, Visions, a bit - Freeform, flashbacks to jedi temple, force ghost sifo-dyas perhaps, ghost sifo-dyas, i mean yeah, obi-wan's will power is terrifying, redemption speedrun, sifo-dyas is too good for this world, sifo-dyas will roast dooku, sith sorcery bad very bad but gonna save the galaxy, zigoola style sith temple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29905185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisdeux/pseuds/jesuisdeux
Summary: “Only one of us will leave this temple alive. Why are you doing this?” Dooku asks.Kenobi pauses, like pondering over how to explain a complicated situation. “Will of the Force.” he shrugs finally, and smiles.“Will of the Force will be your death, then.” he says.“Couldn't expect less. Wouldn't want otherwise. But I don't think that way.” Kenobi's eyes flicker around the room. “It is a corner... for war, for— something bigger. I should be here.”So they move deeper in the temple, Dooku cursing Kenobi's foolishness, both having their own objectives.orA fix-it fic with a ghost Sifo-Dyas roasting Dooku, Obi-wan being too pure and Dooku finally having some sting of conscience.
Relationships: Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dooku & Sifo-Dyas (Star Wars), just flashbacks - Relationship, perhaps Dooku/Sifo-Dyas
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	in umbris potestas est

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings: self-harm, "vision" of character death, implied character death as the "vision" sequence of non-POV character.
> 
> I tagged this as mature because it contains a scene that can be considered as self-harm. It is essentially a scene to open a door in the temple with blood as pass fee. Dark sorcery, fantasy element, like the one in Harry Potter-- Nothing repetitive or disorder-like but I wouldn't want to hurt anyone. So before that scene and the two other scenes where Dooku and Obi-wan sees visions of the deaths of loved-ones begin and finish, I put little stars to indicate that. Still, if you think it may hurt you, please don't read it. annoying hyper-sensivity maybe but be careful fellow reader!

“I have a duty. Shut up.”

“Duty? Really?” Sifo-Dyas looks amused with that, shrugging, and starting to croon a melody. One that Dooku can't quite remember, one from his childhood, their childhood...

One that gets on Dooku's nerves.

“Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, duty.”

Dooku narrows his eyes, not acknowledging Sifo-Dyas' presence otherwise this time. Because there is nothing to acknowledge to him. Nothing. No one comes back from the dead.

“Duty,” Sifo-Dyas repeats, laughing. “I mean, more like a task, Doo.” He waves his hand at the air vaguely. “Like the ones Master Lene gave to her convor. Go fetch the stick girl!”

Dooku clutches his fists, gripping the ship control tighter. No one comes back from the dead. No one.

“Or... Do you remember which master had a dog, hmm? That little, angry thing.”

Now this is dangerous, Sifo-Dyas, or whoever that is, a ghost, an hallucination, is sailing close to the wind. Too close, in fact, to a wind that can snap his neck. One can kill him.

Again.

A crimson saber lifts and tears the air, now pointing the dead man.

“You know,” Sifo-Dyas says, indifferent, “You didn't dare to do it yourself the last time.”

This makes Dooku lower his hand. Sifo-Dyas was never precise in his lightsaber moves, always hesitated, always too soft, always clumsy.

This, on the other hand, stroke the right note. Dooku's hands shake briefly, saber extinguishing, and only Sifo-Dyas can notice such little gesture. Not because he is the only person in the room.

Because he is not in the room.

But Dooku is being sloppy.

Emotion. And, of all emotions...

“The fact that you are ashamed by not getting your hands dirty is really flattering.” Sifo-Dyas smiles. “With my blood.”

Was it just a matter of “getting his hands dirty”?

No. Not just that.

It... it was not an act of disdain, regarding it as an errand, no, it was never that... It was... It was uncertainty.

Dooku wasn't sure if he was capable of it. A terrible flaw, honestly. But he wasn't sure if he could see Sifo-Dyas' face. The face he has seen grow for years beside him, in the creche, in Master Braylon's class, in the Truthseeker, on an Outer Rim planet he can't remember its name.

The shock that came with an instant and merciful death wouldn't behove that face.

The face that smiled, laughed, sometimes shook with future's acquaintances, sometimes wrinkled with worry.

The same face, where he thought he would finally leave, resurfacing in front of him.

The latest trick of his conscience which perhaps he wasn't very successful to scrape off.

A mistake Sidious wouldn't forgive.

There was nothing noble about that decision, that avoidance, he still pointed out the ship to the natives. “Shoot it.” Thinking it was soft-heartedness, a piece of compassion, would be stupid. It was selfish to the bone.

Dooku was saving himself.

His own soul. From nightmares.

Yet here, in front of him, a nightmare in the daylight.

“So... Your so-called duty.”

Eliminate Kenobi.

Excessively easy.

“Is it always that?” he asks. “Always killing off someone. Doing the dirty work.”

Dooku doesn't answer.

“My death was that too. Same duty, all the way. But he didn't find my death... qualified, I imagine?”

No, not at all. _And, tell me why, Tyrannus, you didn't do it yourself. My orders were clear._

“It makes sense, actually. Everything has a forfeit. You had to do it yourself. And since Qui-Gon was already—”

“Do not talk.”

“—dead, then someone else. I just wonder what would happen if he was still alive.”

Better not to think. A child he had raised—

No.

Sentimental witlessness.

“Or Rael. I guess you would just fulfil your duty.”

“It is pleasant to know you understand.” Dooku bursts, allowing himself a grim, small smile. “You always were a slow learner.”

Sifo-Dyas makes a face, hurt, and for a second Dooku thinks he has won that round.

But then he laughs.

Dooku's chest tightens with its familiarity.

“Very cheap, Doo. Really. Downright banal.”

“I'm afraid that will have to do.”

“Yeah, yeah, your duty. Go kill your grandpadawan, don't let me keep you, Master Dooku.”

“It is Count,” Dooku corrects, quickly typing few colourful buttons in the cockpit. “Not Master.”

-

“It is stupid,” Sifo-Dyas says, breaking his silence. They have been walking for a long time now and Dooku starts to think leaving his ship that behind was an indeed stupid mistake.

“You always despised Count Gora.”

He of course did. Why would anyone have any sympathy towards that creature?

“Yet you are becoming him.”

His step faltered. No, he wasn't. He wasn't. Is it what he regarded as stupid? He wasn't. He would never—

-

In a room sunlight obtruded, Sifo-Dyas was treating his face with slow and steady hands, applying bacta.

“I am pretty sure you are the first Jedi that got beaten up by their father,” he said, laughing. “In their mother's funeral.”

It was insulting, honestly. The slap of a father was something... disheartening. Something a Jedi shouldn't have tasted. If it weren't for Sifo-Dyas, perhaps he would be crying, perhaps having a tantrum.

Instead, “I always liked being the first,” he muttered, barely containing his smile.

“Yeah, yeah, you are so special, aren't you, my dear Count?” Sifo-Dyas snorted. “Snob.”

“Please don't call me that.”

“What, Count or—”

“Count.”

“Of course I won't call you that, your majesty,” Sifo-Dyas said, while pulling his hands off of Dooku's face. “You will always be Doo for me.”

-

“I am not becoming him,” Dooku says. His father was nothing more than a coarse aristocrat. His “evil” was... precisely sloppy. Aimless. A swaying drunk, colliding with people around him.

Dooku's steps are calculated.

Too calculated, perhaps, deliberately slow.

Still, he was not successful at keeping the dubitation out of his voice.

“Please don't say you are better than him,” Sifo-Dyas softly says. He wasn't that ruthless when he was alive. “You are far too inferior. Even than him.”

Dooku just keeps walking, not daring another word, the Temple has showed itself on the horizon.

As if he doesn't know what truth Sifo-Dyas' words hold.

-

Dooku curls his lips. Kenobi is... downright foolish. Just taking a glance at the Temple shows that clearly. This, is a structure that doesn't want any living being inside. This, is a terrible trap. A big, shiny one on a map, with a cross sign.

Dark side too solid, nearly filling one's lungs, like Vjun. Like... Like a cave in a planet called Asusto.

Dooku glances at Sifo-Dyas. Sifo-Dyas doesn't meet his gaze.

“I will come with you,” Kenobi says, “I have to.”

“Only one of us will leave this temple alive.” Dooku carelessly remarks.

“That might be the case,” Kenobi's hand goes to his lightsaber briefly. “Let's say I am also interested in the artifact.”

Foolish.

Dooku examines the gate. It has carvings on its surface, folds and twists, symbols and vestiges, nearly a language, a lacework weaved with hate. In the middle, a vacancy, a notch, a mortice.

The nest of the crystal. The crystal that has bled.

His crystal.

He, gingerly, places his saber in it.

The gate opens, but he has to admit, it does so rather reluctantly.

So they step into the Temple, so into their journey, so into their... most possible doom.

Marvellous.

-

Going deeper only brings a mild headache and a deep disapproval. He can feel the hate.

Not inside him, strikingly.

It is terribly external, but completely towards him nevertheless.

He doubts it is just because they are intruders.

It hates what he was, as his master had said.

So, it must hate what Kenobi is.

“Kenobi?” he calls out, remembering that he hasn't seen him since two corners into the labyrinth.

“Careful now,” a voice says. Definitely not Kenobi.

Sifo-Dyas is leaning on a wall, arms folded, a smirk in his face.

“It will almost sound like you care.”

“Of course I care,” Dooku says. “I cannot let the sacrifice die before we reach the artifact, can I?”

“Of course,” Sifo-Dyas says.

“Right here,” Kenobi's voice is close now. When he turns the corner, he looks extremely... raggedy. Hand taking support from the wall, “Who you were talking to?” he asks, nearly concerned. Such a wrong emotion to feel for Dooku.

Dooku turns back to where Sifo-Dyas were mere seconds later. No avail.

Of course Kenobi will not receive an answer.

“The Temple exulcerates you, I presume?” he only asks, voice cold as the stone of the Temple itself.

“Ah, this?” Kenobi smiles, a studied, crooked one. “This is nothing. Holiday village.”

Dooku hums his sarcastic agreement.

“You are in no better condition,” Kenobi lifts his hand, gesturing Dooku's face.

Dooku's hand reaches his nose, and comes back with... blood.

Strange.

Kenobi only approaches slowly, limping beside the wall, and offers him a napkin.

Dooku follows behind his back.

-

Kenobi is sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes shut, head flung back to the wall. On different circumstances this position could mean serenity or peace.

Right now, there is nothing restful about him.

He has been having... attacks, or seizures. Trapped in his own mind. Perhaps he shouldn't move closer to the centre of the Temple.

If he wants to survive, of course.

His murmurs and shivers remind Dooku of Sifo-Dyas. He wonders what he is seeing at the moment.

Well, he knows the answer. Sifo-Dyas endured the future. Ironically enough, Kenobi must be enduring the past right now.

“Aww,” says an obstinate voice. “Miss me?”

Sifo-Dyas is back, standing in the middle of the hallway.

“Perish the thought.”

“I am offended.”

“If you could just stay dead,” Dooku says, trying to calculate how long Kenobi has been out, “than I might.”

“Sure. He has been like that for nearly two hours, by the way.”

Two hours? Dooku's time perception is officially erroneous, then.

Dark side can be relentless. No, it _is_ relentless. It is jealous, first of all, and one who doesn't belong to it shouldn't try to swim in its stygian waters. Because it wants to claim everything its.

Possessive. Punitive. A child desiring all the toys in the universe.

When given, breaking them one by one.

But there are ways to avoid its mercilessness. Ways that most Jedi are too arrogant to use, ways long forgotten.

-

“Shouldn't we be three persons?”

“No.” Sifo-Dyas shook his head, slowly bonding them together with the bandages. “Better, but Master Lene and I have done that ourselves too. It can also be done alone.”

Sometimes Dooku wondered what kind of missions Master Lene jumped into with her slight obsession to the dark.

But it was useful, he had to admit, it was better than running away from it with disdain.

“Three people,” Dooku mused. “Three... entity.”

“Light,” nodded Sifo-Dyas.

“Dark,” Dooku kept on. “Balance.”

Sifo-Dyas paused briefly. “Obviously it is not like casting a role,” he said, cutting their little bond, firming the elegant knots on Dooku's wrist. He understood what he implied, he always understood. “Three is an important number anyway.”

“But if it were that way,” Dooku insisted, like sharing a secret, “you would be the Light.”

Sifo-Dyas lifted his head abruptly, with astonishment. Perhaps he didn't expect this. “And you?” he asked with a different attitude than his normal self. Nearly chiding. Nearly disappointed.

Dooku stayed silent.

“You stupid, of course it is not like that,” Sifo-Dyas repeated. “This is not what—”

He groaned. “You know what? Never mind!”

“What? What have I done now?”

“ _Look at me, I am so dark_ ,” Sifo-Dyas mimicked him, his accent, his posture and... his unspoken suspicion.

“I do not—”

“Yes. Yes, you do.”

Sifo-Dyas stood up, folding his arms with a pretended offence. “Boring, at this point,” he singsonged.

Dooku also folded his arms, feeling rage flare up inside him.

“Why?” he snapped. “Why is it boring? It is easy to say that when you aren't the one to hear that man, calling me apprentice!” He knew his volume was too high, and he was going to curse himself later for it. “You weren't the one who heard all the voices! I have done terrible things— I will do— You weren't the one who used lighting, Sifo-Dyas, lighting!”

Sifo-Dyas backed away. For a second, he looked resentful at his outburst, or so Dooku thought.

But then a knowing smile settled on his face, expression all screaming “You have fallen into a trap.” at him.

“I mean,” he started calmly, hiding a grin, “it is not very clever to come to me with visions, of all people, in such argument.”

Obviously.

“You self-oriented bastard, shut up, and listen.” Sifo-Dyas sat back down at the bed, taking a breath. “I see... things, bad things, every day, so do not come to me with that. Of all things. I do not even know what have I done-- what I will do, Doo! But so what? What can I do? What can you do? With this kind of fear you really are going to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Stop!”

Sifo-Dyas' face softened.

“I will still wake up from my bed, or, I don't know, stand up from the floor, and keep going. I will try what I can. And I know you will be with me. And I will be with you. If anyone can keep going, I know it is you!”

Dooku nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

-

“So?” Sifo-Dyas asks. “What are you waiting for? I will not bandage your hands. I am dead. Not a baby-sitter.”

He takes a step. He is too intimidating for a dead man, which makes Dooku frown at his own thought.

“Not to mention your altered relationship with the dark.”

“My relationship with the dark is none of your concern.”

Sifo-Dyas authoritatively points out Kenobi with a finger. “Teach him that.”

“He is not my responsibility.”

“Or he will die.”

And Sifo-Dyas is no more.

Dooku paces up and down, briefly gazing the deeps of the Temple.

He then looks at Kenobi. A boy, screaming a name Dooku can't stand anymore. Unendurable – knowing that what killed the owner of that name is now hung in his belt. Not the same one perhaps, but, on a shiny day, on Naboo—

A red lightsaber, finding itself a place in the chest of—

_Sacrifice_ , he repeats himself, just that. It would be a waste if Kenobi died.

So, he kneels beside Kenobi and lifts his hand to the air.

He had tried calling, of course, he pronounced his name, might as well could talk to the walls.

Blow strikes Kenobi's cheek, resurfacing him to the real world with a deep breath, nearly longing for air.

“Your cloak,” Dooku says. “Give it to me.”

It takes a moment for Kenobi to comprehend where he is, or even... who he is. And with the realization dawned, his breaths finally calming down, he turns to Dooku.

“I'm sorry?”

Dooku doesn't ask for permission this time. Well, he didn't ask the first time either. He simply rips the hens of the cloak, leaving Kenobi gaping. It is not the most appropriate material, thick cotton, but that will have to do.

“Take this, bind and knot around your wrist, like a bandage.” Dooku commands. “We call upon the three– repeat, do not look at me stupidly.”

Kenobi stares.

“It is a ritual,” Dooku clarifies. “If you want to survive this temple.”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Kenobi says, slowly, confused. And... cautious. Waiting.

Waiting for what?

Ah.

“If I wanted to kill you,” Dooku says, bored, “I would use a more efficient way. Not a ritual.” And especially... “Not an old Jedi ritual.”

Kenobi lifts an eyebrow.

Arrogant Jedi.

“And no, I do not aim to turn you to the dark side either.”

At the times like this, Dooku misses Master Kostana. So terrified of the dark, too apprehensive of its ways, but not even searching what it is, or how to protect oneself. He would like to see her argue with Kenobi.

“Opposite. It is to keep clear of it. I did too, when I was your age.”

Kenobi examines him, like he is searching the scared Jedi Master he once was. He is not very successful, of course, no one can find that boy, repeating that old mantra in his room, secretly, blasphemously. Not anymore. Tyrannus killed him.

Still, Kenobi's hand reaches to the fabric strips.

Perhaps he thinks he was successful at finding the crumbles of Dooku, Master Yoda's padawan, Sifo-Dyas' friend.

Fool.

“All your arm. Open your palm and turn it towards the stars.”

Eh, this sounds too optimistic, but it is how Dooku learned it too. Stars. How innocent. There are no stars in Sith Temples. There are no stars in Sith planets like Zigoola. There are no stars in a galaxy where people earn their living from Star Destroyer industry.

“We call upon the three. Light. Dark. And balance true.” he recites, slowly for Kenobi to learn. “One is no greater than the others.”

At this, Kenobi smiles bitterly, wrapping his wrists.

“Do not mock.” Dooku chides. “Together they unite, restore, center, and renew. We walk into the Light. Acknowledge the Dark. And find Balance in ourselves… For the Force is strong.”

The fact he remembers it after all these years is… _interesting_. But of course, he doesn't walk into the light, these days. And he is not satisfied with just acknowledging the dark. Not anymore.

Kenobi starts repeating it himself, knotting the strips carefully, and Dooku turns around to give him some... privacy.

He never liked it when someone entered the room while he was doing that. He hated admitting his expose to the dark – impertinence, being young and being a Jedi. Except for Sifo-Dyas. Only he was allowed to see him vulnerable.

Kenobi repeats the invocation, mumbling, careful.

“It... it helps.” he says, finally, surprised and vibrant with another emotion.

“Thank you.”

Gratitude, then. What was that determinant he thought when he examined Kenobi right outside the Temple?

Foolish.

“Can you walk?” Dooku asks, negligent.

Every naive emotion wipes of off Kenobi's face just like this. Remembrance of their little trip to the heart of temple.

He hopefully registers the reality of the situation.

“Utterly, yes,” Kenobi climbs to his feet in a second. He acts fine, except, he loses his balance for a second. But soon enough he is walking in front of him with tight steps.

Novel.

“Why are you so eager, Kenobi?” he asks, Sifo-Dyas is right, it will sound like he cares. He doesn't, but he... wonders. Wonders the reason. “Don't you understand what is to come?”

“What is to come, hmm,” muses Kenobi. “I am not sure if we share the same idea over that.”

“I will kill you.”

“How strange. I was thinking the exact opposite.”

“Or the temple will, before I even attempt.”

Kenobi exhales, exhausted or exasperated, impossible to distinguish. “Why are you doing this?”

Duty.

“Isn't it clear? You are wanted removed from the equation.”

“I am flattered. And I can see that. But I am asking: Why are you doing this? There are... easier ways. You said yourself.”

There is no answer to that. He doesn't want the artifact that much. Curiosity, yes, he has that. But not too much to conflict with the direct orders coming from Sidious. He has no idea why he keeps walking, why he just doesn't kill him off, why he just doesn't even take the Republic scum as a prisoner.

He cannot answer.

“Why are _you_ doing this?” he asks instead.

Kenobi pauses, like pondering over how to explain a complicated situation.

“Will of the Force, as I already said.” he shrugs finally, and smiles.

Will of the Force. Dooku laughs, brief, rude. He knows another person who listened to the Force's premonitions carefully.

That person is dead.

Or supposed to be dead.

Uncharacteristically, Sifo-Dyas is not here. His absence is at least as frustrating as his presence.

Eh, only Sifo-Dyas can manage to have that effect on Dooku.

“Will of the Force will be your death, then.” he says.

“Couldn't expect less. Wouldn't want otherwise. But I don't think that way.” Kenobi's eyes flicker around the room. “It is a corner... for war, for— something bigger. I should be here.”

“Then be here.” Dooku says, rattled. “Die.”

He would prefer much more Kenobi to turn back and run away the opposite direction. To the outside, to the light, to the Light.

Perhaps this is what he wants for himself. But then what? Duty undone, Kenobi alive, artifact not taken. No, that would not do.

He needs something to deliver to Sidious.

They keep walking towards deeper.

-

The dark side has been spilling over them like bitumen.

Dooku is, by all odds, against all odds, fine. Not a place to have a picnic, clearly, but minus the headache and the saturninity, he is fine.

Except, he can swear he heard some footsteps, light and deadly, behind them, ahead them, even from the ceiling, but he will not think about that.

He is fine.

Kenobi, on the other hand...

He lost consciousness, he fell, he dreamt, he cried, he...

He is not fine, certainly.

Right now, he is repeating the invocation in the same hysterical way he did throughout the last hours, rattling off but nearly screaming.

Dooku doubts if repeating it that much will work, or using a higher volume. It is nerve wracking at this point and no, he can't say his nerves were in good condition to begin with.

He turns his back to face him. Kenobi is binding and unbinding the bandages, arms lifted to air like he is invoking for some kind of help, slowly marching on, shouting, “For the Force is strong, for the Force is strong—”

“Why are you shouting?”

Kenobi stops abruptly, gaze lifting slowly, the face of an anguished man. He says, this time in a lower voice, “Am I shouting?”

“Yes.”

He averts his eyes, whispering, “It won't stop, too loud— too loud—”

“What won't stop, Kenobi?”

But Kenobi also is quick at composing himself back as he just realizes whose presence he is in. “Apologies,” he says, and walking past Dooku, he just resumes unwinding his bandages to wind it back again, repeating the phrase lowly this time.

His desperate invocation dies in his lips as Dooku catches him from the shoulder.

“What is it?” he asks again, too brusque.

Kenobi looks conflicted.

So Dooku loosens his grip, softens his voice. “What is it, son?” he asks, and as soon as the last word leaves his mouth, he furrows his brows at his own... idiocy.

That wasn't intended. He just remembered another young lad, too frightened to meet his master in the eye. His own mind betrayed him— and of course, of course, did so by resurfacing memories of Qui-gon.

Fortunate enough, Kenobi doesn't seem to realise the mistake Dooku had just made, he is battling with himself.

“Kenobi,” Dooku pushes.

“The voice—” he starts, but no other words follow.

“The voice?”

For a second the possibilities of what this voice might be or might be saying enriches Dooku's imagination.

“What does it say?” he asks carefully, not sure if he really wants to know or not.

“Die Jedi, die,” Kenobi says, gaze averted, like listening something from far away. “Submit Jedi, submit.”

And Dooku realizes he isn't simply saying it. He is quoting, or perhaps _repeating simultaneously_.

Suddenly, not being a Jedi at the moment is a far more relishing idea than it ever was.

“Then turn back, you fool,” he answers. He, desperately, wants to shake some sense to the boy. Unfortunately, he only grits his teeth. “Turn back.”

“I cannot—” Kenobi answers, setting himself free of his grip. For a second Dooku expects more, but it doesn't come. Kenobi walks away.

He, then, mumbles something, too low to discern, but the Temple is too silent to not to catch. “It would be submitting,” he says, absent-mindedly, “it would make me Xanatos.”

Dooku stands still for a long time. Or perhaps a short time. His perception of time is flawed, after all, or so Sifo-Dyas indicated and Dooku trusted him without a doubt. But wasn't he also already reconciled on Sifo-Dyas being his own mind's product?

He stares blankly before finally lifting his foot to follow Kenobi.

-

The pillar is exceedingly dramatic. It is black, something in between obsidian and emerald, sharply cut. In a way, it is like a speech stand.

A little dagger lies ignorant on it.

They are observing the room, their little prison now. They cannot keep walking. There is no further door.

This is not that worrisome.

But they cannot take a step back either. The only door sealed itself with their first step to the room.

This, is indeed terrifying, with the bubbling thoughts of the need to water, food, oxygen, suffocating slowly, starving laggingly—

******Dooku approaches the short pillar, taking the dagger, admiring its craftsmanship.

It wants tribute. Extorsion.

He can give what is wanted. He presses the dagger to cut his hand, clean and quick, but before drawing blood—

Ah.

Realization dawns.

“It wants a pass fee,” he announces, holding the dagger up. “I would do it, but, well—”

Kenobi, who has been watching him behind his back now comes to his view. He stares at the surface of the stone darkly, for a brief second, before saying, “Of course.”

He takes the dagger.

Jedi blood.

Dooku is not anymore. Why did he forget that?

“You see,” Kenobi talks, more to himself than Dooku, probably, tearing first cloak fabric of his new protector, second his flesh. “It makes you wonder whether I am the only Jedi who saw this room alive or not.” He smiles uncheerfully. “I cannot imagine any other Sith asking for... _acquiescence_.”

He rubs his palm to the stone, painting it with crimson.

“How fortunate of you,” Dooku scoffs.

“Indeed,” Kenobi says. “And how gracious of you.”

Before Dooku can answer, _I do not want to drag your body_ , _this is the only reason you are alive_ , the frowsty room gives a lurch, for a second looking like falling in and intending to be their grave forever.

Then it stills.

Then a door opens.

Not two. No going back now. Only a corridor ahead of them, narrower, lower ceilinged.

“After you, Count,” Kenobi extends his bleeding hand to the door.*******

-

“Qui-Gon was devastated.”

“Quiet.”

“And you asked me that you didn't know how to help. You surely remember that.”

Dooku shakes his head. Of course he remembers that, he simply doesn't want to.

“And the long debates over free will, you, dramatically saying that nature over nurture. Me, accusing you of being an idiot determinist.”

Those days. Those nights. His argues with everyone over the subject, because why did that disgusting padawan did that, why Qui-Gon had to be hurt in such way--

“Was it nature, what made Xanatos fall?”

“I don't know.” Dooku says wearily. “It wasn't Qui-Gon's nurture.”

“Was it nature what made you fall so very down?” Sifo-Dyas asks with mockery.

It wasn't Yoda's nurture, he knows that much.

“At some point you were so angry you accused Xanatos of being a beast, remember?”

Yes. No one should have dared to scarify his padawan. Xanatos was indeed a beast. A slaver. A monster. Aimless malignity.

Sifo-Dyas giggles. “An aimless drunk? I see many resemblances here. The apostate reclaims the title of his father, all the gainings, all the wealth! And so he sits down, creating an order some kind.”

“Shut up.”

“But actually, a child, wallowing in mud, playing with toys. A beast, you called him, yet--”

Dooku fastens his steps, as if it could help him run away from his tormentor.

“You are the same. You are worse. An adolescent with a temper, why don't you admit it? A slaver—”

“I am not him,” Dooku growls. “I am not a slaver.”

“Yet you make agreements with them.”

“So does the Republic.”

“So, we have a deal. I realise now, you _are_ the _slave_.”

“I am not—”

Kenobi stops, turns back to face him. “You are talking to yourself,” he says. Concern, once again.

“Look at him,” Sifo-Dyas is saying, nodding at Kenobi, “he is doing it for his ideals. Just because there is a very little possibility, he is ready to risk everything.”

“This is his failing,” Dooku shrugs.

“And you,” Sifo-Dyas says, “You are a hypocrite. Ignoble. What would Qui-gon do if he was there?”

No, this is not the question. This is the question he will not ask. What he is doing is necessary. He is trying to help, to set things straight, he is not a beast, he has purpose, meaningful purpose--

“What is your voice saying?” Kenobi asks with curiosity.

Obviously Dooku's “voice” doesn't despise him because he is a Jedi. How very opposite, the situation is.

“It is not about the Temple,” he says, “Just keep walking.”

“But let me tell you what would happen if he was alive,” Sifo-Dyas says. “He would spit in your face.”

Dooku grits his teeth.

“How cruel of the Force that possibility lies in your hand.” Sifo-Dyas says. “The possibility. One that Obi-wan and countless others wait for. You don't even realise, don't you?”

“No, Sifo-Dyas, I do not,” Dooku shouts, finally, his rage sparkling, not because he disagrees, quite the contrary.

He agrees. He knows. He knows, so why Sifo-Dyas doesn't stop stabbing him with words?

“Fool and coward.” Sifo-Dyas says dryly.

He knows the truth and it is always hard to hold, a sharp knife, and he doesn't want to hold it anymore, no, he doesn't understand, he does not, and Sifo-Dyas is dead— “This is not your place to— YOU ARE DEAD— Silence yourself or I will—”

But before he can draw his lightsaber Kenobi is standing too close to him. “Count,” looking like hasn't been sleeping for a month, he says, “Are you... are you all right?”

Dooku pulls his hand off of his saber. He is staring at thin air, he knows.

“Dooku?”

“Keep walking,” he only says. Kenobi doesn't.

“I... I didn't know that Sith temples attacked... other Sith.”

Dooku casts him a look, ireful. “They don't. It is not the temple.”

“Master Sifo-Dyas?” Obi-wan asks, tilting his head. “Did you... know him?”

Perhaps better than anyone else. And once, he actually took pride in that.

“Yes. Turn back and march on.”

“He ordered the clone army,” Kenobi says, thoughtful. “And a man...” he keeps on, but he looks very sorrowful, too sorrowful, for a person who doesn't know anything on the matter. “There was another man.” Then sorrow blends with consideration and curiosity. “Called Tiranus?” he says, slowly, “Or Tyranus...”

He lifts his head in a trice. “A name... that made” he has a brief coughing fit, “many Separatist conventions on the Outer Rim. You are him, aren't you?” he takes a step back and a heavy breath in. “You killed him—”

Only if it was just that...

Everything would be easier, wouldn't it be?

But no. It wasn't just killing. It was, mostly, Plaguies, Sidious and the visions. All three. They destroyed Sifo-Dyas and Dooku watched, and then, when he was dangling from the cliff, Dooku pushed him. He pried his fingers off one by one, didn't he?

Yes. Far worse. Dirty work.

“None of your concern.”

“I—” Kenobi starts, but before that, he is plagued with yet another attack.

Dooku catches him on impulse, and makes him sit down.

And silence. Finally. No more questions, eating him up inside. No more questions, eating him up outside.

Accusations which he is guilty of all.

But this is the path he has on hand, the path already sealed. He went too far down through it. He cannot turn his way, no one said it would be easy and he doesn't expect such thing. Too deep in the ocean, too deep down, too dark, too solid, too unchangeable—

Silence is broken. Kenobi's irritating comatose words tear the air once again. A swamp of memories. Even Dooku himself, most possibly amputating that Skywalker. Dooku pouts.

Old incidents. Old people. Dead people.

Dead masters.

Dead padawans.

Dead Qui-Gon.

Kenobi should be dead too, a little bit of a price for a far greater plan.

Can they move, further, deeper?

They have come this far. And clearly, they cannot go back.

Kenobi is an insistent idealist, a dogmatised Jedi, a naive child.

His grandpadawan.

Dooku is excessively foolish, if...

If he believes he can do such atrocious thing.

His master, his new master, would say: “Having an attack of conscience, apprentice?” with the acrimonious voice of him.

Perhaps.

What would his old master say, Dooku wonders for a brief, vulnerable moment, before shutting the thought out completely.

-

To this point, Kenobi's crises did not contain movement. Nor violence. He slept, restlessly, terribly, painfully, yes, but he slept.

Dooku didn't expect Kenobi to stand up from where he made him sit. He didn't expect him to ignite his saber with a swift movement. He didn't expect him to start out a duel.

With solidly nothing. With his mastery of Soresu.

It looks like dancing alone, in the end, clashing and parrying with nothing, backstepping from nothing, lunging for nothing, running from nothing and running to nothing, nothing, nothing...

Chopping off the air, footing around in the narrow corridor, leaving poignant burn marks on the walls.

With a finality and aggression which, Soresu, in its pure form, didn't contain. With a severity he has never seen on Kenobi before. Durity.

Which makes him realise, with an astonishment, that Kenobi is using the dark side.

_Such an unfolding of events._

Dooku thinks of them both, face to face, on Geonosis, he thinks of his offer, and he thinks of the insulting rejection. It was the desire, wasn't it? To see him by his side. On the same side. Under the same shade, yet...

For a second also comes the image of Qui-Gon. Young, too young in a way that persecutes Dooku. Asking, doubting himself, if he would feel the pull of the dark side. If he could fall down that hole, if he studied other things, if he wanted to know the future—

“It takes more than that,” Dooku had reassured him. His padawan had looked conflicted, but then smiled with reliance to his master.

Kenobi doesn't have a choice on the matter as he is being puppeted by the temple.

Something Dooku can find himself relating to. _Agency of fate. A puppet._

So he adds himself to the equation, jumping into the action, into the game, warding off Kenobi's saber on air. He fends off and deflects him to the point of rising to the situation of offence. Kenobi backs towards a wall and with the help of being unconscious, makes a mistake he also makes many times while duelling.

He leaves his abdomen unprotected.

It isn't difficult for Dooku to elegantly _calcitrate_ him, as he preferred to say. Sifo-Dyas would complain, if he was there, grumbling, “Just say kick, hmm? To kick!”

But he isn't there.

A lightsaber falls, a back collides with a wall, a mind regains.

Dooku also extinguishes his saber and decides not to say anything on the matter. While Kenobi looks around, disoriented, Dooku turns away.

He hears retching.

Kenobi must realise it too, he must become aware of what he has done.

The profane path he crossed.

Then his confusion comes, then his contempt and sorrow are too pronounced in the Force, perhaps it is the temple that sharpens such emotions.

“It was permanent,” Dooku says, with a weird tone, as Kenobi lifts his head to examine him with surprise.

Solacement. Surprise is an appropriate emotion.

“It takes a bit more than that,” Dooku consolates, as he also said to a scared child, once. He lifts his hands, showing the scattered corridor. “Dark side,” he clarifies with a low voice. “More than a temple. More than mere dreams.”

And it is not arrogant boasting, not simple vaunt. It is _comfort_. Strikingly.

His lips curl into a rueful smile. “Experience speaks.”

Kenobi nods shakily.

“Careful now,” a voice taunts. “It _sounds_ like you care.”

Perhaps. But Dooku only stares at him coolly, then turns his gaze back to Kenobi. “We should reach to the heart as soon as possible,” he says. “As you cannot stay longer. Main chambers almost always have an exit way.”

And Kenobi is back on his feet, not daring a word or quip uncharacteristically, Dooku disappointed on that fact uncharacteristically, they continue further, deeper on their journey.

-

Two more attacks of Kenobi, _such an atrocious timekeeping instrument_ , Dooku thinks, more long corridors, more feet ache, and they reach to a dead end. Another gate, long, broad. Unlike the first gate, it is terrifyingly vacant, simple. A single door knocker hangs on it.

For a second, they both stare at it.

Finally, Dooku decides to extend his hand to push it, in an invading manner, because... he is actually too afraid to knock the door properly.

It doesn't make any noise, there is no resistance from it as it opens without hesitation. As it instructs the room to its intruder.

It only reveals another boring, insignificant room like any other in the temple, from its half open gap.

“Why would...” Kenobi breaks his silence, voice low, gravelly. “Why would anyone lay them open? Unprotected?” his exhausted words echo. “The— the artifacts? The chamber? If there is not... already other—”

Dooku realises what he is implying with terror.

“If there aren’t any other protections.” he completes.

Kenobi nods and mops his brow.

A mere door is nothing, a plain brick of wall, but other obstacles are waiting for them, aren't they? Far more horrifying impediments.

“Plausible.”

Actually, clever. Too clever, and even crafty.

This time it is Dooku who steps into their new track of encounters first.

-

The moment he enters the room, something of a realisation flicker inside him.

_Outside_. Before entering it, it looked like a room like the others. But it is outside, a desert planet, a spacious sky. No walls. Orange sands and turquoise sphere. In the middle, an obelisk. A standing stone, nearly a Sith temple itself. But too slender and too long to be one. Like the columns, functioning as a clock, in the town square of rather primitive cultures.

It casts a forbidding shadow to left with the sun coming from right. Sun, or suns, two, or three, impossible to tell.

Forbidding, yes, and he _fears_. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.

But he learned that it was a missing statement. Suffering leads to power.

In umbris potestas est. _In the shadows, there is power._

He fears, yet, it doesn't stop him from approaching the figures hidden in the shadow.

He shouldn't.

He does.

His heart skips a beat.

******Yoda, seventy years younger, still with a soft however piercing gaze— that, if he was alive. Slain in his hands.

Qui-gon Jinn, a sole child, inspecting around with curious eyes— that, if he was alive. Slain in his hands.

Rael Aveross, a mere kid, staring like he could challenge all the world just by himself— that, if he was alive. Slain in his hands.

Jenza, a young girl, smiling like she could save everyone. Perhaps she could— that, if she was a live. Slain in his hands.

Sifo-Dyas, tired but smiling and this is the only deduction he will make because he averts his gaze, because it is not a vision like the others, no nightmare, it is a memory— Slain in his hands. Not in his hands, not truly. And he was wrong, a memory and a nightmare. But why would any of these make any difference?

There is no escape from nightmares.

What should he do? Weep? Tear his hairs out?

“You know what to do.” Sifo-Dyas says. “You always know but you are so thick-skulled so I must forgive you about this slow apprehension.”

No, not this again—

“Look, younger. Much younger,” he keeps talking. Dooku looks at him to understand, only to see Sifo-Dyas gesturing his own body. One in the shadow. “Young but true. That,” he stops to punctuate, “is the true age. Me, on the other hand,” he lifts his hands, showing wrinkled skin, he shrugs, “I am old, as I will never be.”

Dooku bows his head with shame.

“You made me old, look at me, my knees ache!”

And he is making jokes. As if they are still the twelve-year-old friends, at the field trip to Ilum.

With the visions and the dreams, they might as well be.

“Is it redemption?” he asks abruptly. Absolution? Vindication? He knows the answer. He asks anyway.

“Now we are talking!” Sifo-Dyas exclaims with joy. But his answer is devoid of the emotion: “No. It cannot be.”

“One should draw the line at some point.” Dooku tilts his head, reconciled.

“Yes.”

“But—”

“But you can be useful, yes.” Sifo-Dyas completes, nodding. “Mighty Dooku, finally, being useful— At last!”

Then he tightens his bun with a familiar move. “Well, not _at last_ , maybe. Thank you for the copy in Master Braylon's class. That crib was useful.”

Dooku twitches the corner of his mouth up, quick, small, being the first person to do such thing ever in that constructure, with fond memories. “You are welcome.”

And the visionary in front of him sways, and scatters, no breezes and sands anymore, no memories, no nightmares— leaving him to the prosaic room, but in the middle, there is only Kenobi.

No dead bodies but a Jedi on his knees, calling out for someone doesn't exist.

“ _Anakin, what do you think you are doing—_ ”

Voice angry, very much like scolding a child.

_“Come to your senses!”_

But then resentful. Then worried, volume rising. “ _Anakin— She is your padawan— No—_ ”

And so he catches something, someone doesn't exist. Not in the room.

A body.

_“You have allowed this Dark Lord to twist your mind,”_ he whispers with sorrow. Then turns his attention to the body in his arms which doesn't exist, embracing thin air. _“Ahsoka— it is fine, yes, padawan, you can rest now.”*******_

Skywalker's padawan was... young, a child commander, if Dooku recalls correctly. He grimaces. Because… _his fault._

And he approaches Kenobi and shakes him out of his final attack.

This time, it doesn't help, nor the slap he descends.

So Dooku waits. And waits. And thinks of... irreversible mistakes.

Kenobi doesn't come out of his own ordeal until he says, with a blood-curdling finality, a heart-wrenching grief:

_“I will do what I must.”_

And like that, he is back from the foggy forest of a doomed possibility.

There are tears in his eyes.

Dooku is very certain about what he should do, so he rips his own cape. It is not the most appropriate material, thin silk, but that will have to do. “Together,” he says, and no further explanation is needed.

Kenobi stands up, readies his wrists, raising them to the stars, binding his fabric tearing once again. So does Dooku. They need to centre themselves, balance from leaning to one another. “We call upon the three.” they start simultaneously, “Light. Dark. And balance true—”

They have only begun, but the floor trembles, it dusts off itself, the ceiling looks much closer—

They are escalating.

Then there is no ceiling.

-

At first, there is ringing.

In his ears, perhaps, or like the emergency medical aids of Coruscant, sirens.

Then darkness, melded with a light. He is not sure if it has colours, but if it had, it would be scarlet red.

Because of course.

When he entirely wakes, he rises to his feet in the twink of an eye, and catches a glance of Kenobi on a corner.

He also climbs to his feet.

And although there is silence, they both can hear the bell chiming and indicating the start of the race.

The source of the light is the jewellery they were searching for, blood coloured diamond, cut in a sharp form— A Sith holocron, on yet another column.

On it, blissfully, only one byword.

_In umbris potestas est._

Kenobi is gritting his teeth and covering his ears while taking a step towards it, while approaching the holocron, but in a way, he is struggling against the wind...

...while Dooku swiftly holds it and gently lifts it from its place.

Too late. It wasn’t a fair race.

The moment holocron is raised from its home, the ceiling moves, moves, to four edge, it slides, and it is no more. Sunlight, at last. Real, genuine sunlight, not the torch lights, not the light shining with a specific red of dark sorcery. A precious exit.

An escape.

Not knowing what holocron will mean to him, perhaps a weapon Dooku can use, Kenobi ignites his saber, still covering one ear. “Give it to me—” he starts, shouting.

Its whispers must be too loud. Beyond endurance. But he still endures.

Dooku clenches his finger around the holocron.

What kind of secrets lie in it, what kind of power sleeps in it, undisturbed for years, what kind of possibilities it can grant to its listener?

“You don’t have to… do it— please—”

Just for a second, Dooku is hesitating. For a second, suspense. Brief. Not about what he is about to do.

No. He knows what he should do. What he _will_ do.

Just for a moment, he is only perplexed about _how_.

Then he decides on simplicity.

His grip loosens, like a moment of inattention. Like a moment of carelessness.

Like, when the holocron falls ungracefully and splits into a million pieces, it is because of inexperienced recklessness.

It is not.

Kenobi lets out a breath, head bowed, hand slipping away from his head now resting on his knees. Simple as having a break to rest, after running hundreds of meters.

If the audience were to cheer at this point, after the marathon, in his medal it would say: First Jedi ever to survive a Sith Temple, perhaps.

“Thank you,” he only lets out with strangled breaths, relief leaking to face. “But why?”

Now Dooku should give a stylish answer, shouldn’t he?

But he only crouches down, picking up the sheds of the holocron. Broken pieces of glass, once containing hatred and power, now utterly useless. Fragile.

“Open your palms,” Dooku instructs. When Kenobi does so, he pours the quarks.

“ _Why?_ ” he repeats, musing. “You were going to take it, and I didn’t want you to obtain it. So I broke it with the Force. Why would I want my enemy to acquire such thing?”

“But that’s not what— _Ah_.” Kenobi nods. “But still. _Why?_ ”

Dooku’s expression turns serious. “Now, _this_ , is a long talk. I assume you would prefer to have it outside the temple.”

So he calcitrates the bottom of the pillar, applying pressure to a precise piece of pavement. Sifo-Dyas is not here to rectify his wonderful vocabulary. Strange.

“This is why you study everything,” he grumbles amusedly as a stairway harmoniously rises from that pavement. “You never know when you will need this kind of information.”

Creating stairs on the top of a Sith temple, excessively necessary qualification, especially while your life depending on it.

Also, a very elegant entry on an autobiography.

Kenobi watches him with awe, because he made a joke, didn’t he? But he also was reprimanding his discrimination of knowledge.

They climb the steps, slowly, one by one, and they are on the summit of the temple. Sun inveighs their eyes, winds threaten them of pushing them to their most possible death, trundling down from the grand ladders of the ziggurat.

They do so, but without the thrust of the winds, slowly climbing down the grand steps.

“I hope you haven’t gotten a sunstroke, Master Kenobi,” Dooku says halfway down. “Because the conversation we will make— well, you are needed sober.”

Kenobi pauses, considering the words. “It appears no amount of soberness can prepare me for the oncoming conversation.” he faintly smiles, aiming to make sense out of what he says. Aiming for an earlier explanation.

His grandpadawan is quite right. Dooku takes another step and wonders, frowning, what kind of a face he will make when he learns about a particular Chancellor.

**Author's Note:**

> the invocation "we call upon the three" is completely from Dooku Jedi Lost by Cavan Scott.
> 
> i have no idea how latin can exist in star wars universe but according to wookieepedia it does.
> 
> thank you for reading!


End file.
